


havana

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, But she's trying, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Feelings, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Pillow Talk, Porn with Feelings, Safewords, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, and we love that for her, but NOT the fun kind, much feelings, on both ends, past sexual slavery, past trauma, soft yelena belova, top yelena belova, yelena belova being bad at talking about her feelings, yelena belova needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “I’ve killed people, Y/N,” she whispers.You tuck a stray lock of golden hair behind her ear. “I know,” you say softly.“I don’t know how to love you like you deserve.”A sad smile tugs at your lips. “Don’t be daft, darling,” you assure her gently, looking her in the eye to let her know you mean every word. “You already do.”Or: Yelena barges into your apartment after a mission that (apparently) ended early. She’s got a cut on her forehead, soot streaking her cheeks, and murder in her eyes. But when you ask, she doesn’t want to talk about what happened.In fact, she doesn’t want to talk at all.
Relationships: Yelena Belova & Natasha Romanov, Yelena Belova/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	havana

**Author's Note:**

> this got so outta hand plsssss
> 
> боже мой | _bozhe moi_ | "my god"  
> милая | _milaya_ | [feminine adjectival form] sweetheart, love, honey  
> зайка | _zaika_ | [feminine noun] bunny, honey, baby

One thing most people know about you: When looking for a potential partner, you aren’t exactly fond of grouchiness or mood swings or a hotheaded temper like C4 on a hair-trigger. You simply don’t have the time for it. 

But with Yelena… well. She’s _Yelena_.

You couldn’t stop adoring her if you tried. 

Not to mention, the fits of rage didn’t always end up being _so_ bad for you... 

Take today, for example. 

You’re in the kitchen cooking up a late 30-minute dinner of chicken alfredo and a homemade vinaigrette for the salad—strawberry, rosemary, white balsamic vinegar… a hint of lime. 

It’s something like 8:00 on a Thursday night, and you’ve been on your feet since 5:00 this morning. 

Hell, you haven’t even changed out of your hospital scrubs yet. Your body aches for a quiet dinner, followed promptly by a steaming-hot shower; then, perhaps some wine and _Law & Order_ re-runs until you pass out on the living room sofa. 

You’ve only just finished eating and storing the rest of the food in Ziploc containers in the fridge when you hear the telltale twist and _click!_ of the front-door lock. 

It’s all the warning you get before someone comes storming into the apartment. 

No, not someone. _Yelena_. 

The look on her face is hard and furious. She doesn’t even bother to lock the door after she slams it behind her. And the silence that accompanies her… well, that alone is far more concerning than all the yelling in the world. 

“Hey, ‘Lena. You’re… here,” you begin slowly, tentatively as you shut the refrigerator door and turn to face her. “I thought you were on a mission. What—?”

“I’m not anymore,” Yelena says shortly as she enters the kitchen, already eyeing you up and down with an expression you can’t quite place. 

She’s still in her tactical suit, streaks of soot across her cheeks and a small scabbed-over cut above her left brow. And the look in her eye… enraged, yet cold, somehow even as she shamelessly drinks you in. 

She takes a step closer, then two. 

It takes everything within you not to back away. “What happened? Did it not go well?”

If she hears your question, she doesn’t let on. Instead, her focus is entirely singular, raking up and down your body like she can see you through the scrubs. 

“I want to touch you,” she utters out eventually, her voice hoarse and gravelly. “Will you let me?”

Arousal zips through your senses like a spark of electricity, lighting you up from the inside-out with white-hot, molten _desire_. 

“Of course, ‘Lena,” you tell her in a tone so gentle, it makes you ache for something harder. 

_No, wait_. 

A sliver of rationality reaches you through a haze of wanting—Yelena is fresh off a mission. She’s angry, and wound-up, and likely a hell of a lot more battered than she’s letting on. 

“So long as we talk about it afterwards,” you tack on hastily, silently pleading with her to just give you this, at least. “Deal?”

A flicker of something like awareness in Yelena’s darkening gaze—a flicker of something you recognize: the practiced restraint of a woman you know will never, _ever_ hurt you. 

“Deal,” she agrees with a hard swallow, eyes darting from your face to your tits and back again like she can’t decide where to look. It’s quite adorable, really. “Safe word?” At your raised brows, she adds, “I don’t want to hurt you, Y/N.”

“Okay,” you acquiesce with a nod. You’ve had safe words with ex-partners in past years, but never with Yelena—though it’s certainly been a point of discussion between the two of you, especially as of late. 

Just… between your job and hers and the way Natasha’s Avenger-ing inevitably seemed to continuously overlap with Yelena’s (and by extension, your) life, there never seemed to be a good moment to revisit the topic.

Well. No time like the present, right?

“Havana,” you say finally. 

Yelena stiffens like she’s been hit. “What?”

You can understand her bewilderment. Sympathize with it, even. 

You don’t often talk about your time there, hopped up on drugs so strong you could barely speak, being passed around from one rich man to another so long as the checks cleared. You don’t talk about how you still can’t stand the stench of Cuban cigars, or the way even the faintest whiff of _cocido de garbanzos_ (chickpea soup) makes you retch. 

Yes, Havana holds boundless grief and anguish for you; that much is true. 

But Havana is also the place you and Yelena first met. 

The place a gorgeous blonde woman who called herself Elena Buendía entered the room, spoke with your employer (read: trafficker) under the guise of purchasing your company for the night, only to turn and shoot him dead where he stood without so much as blinking. The rest of his goons, too. 

Three buildings burned before the night was over, and the bullets she fired seemed without end. Yet, when all of it was over, you were (relatively) unharmed. Safe. _Free_. 

Yes… Havana—as wrought with unpleasantness and pain as it may be—is where you tasted freedom once more for the very first time in the nine drawn-out months since you’d first been captured. 

It’s where you laid eyes upon your beautiful rescuer—an avenging angel streaked head-to-toe in blood and ash and sweat. It’s where you saw her and learned that you could still _want_ , even after everything. That Vicente hadn’t broken you, not truly. 

All this flashes in your mind’s eye in a split-second—here one moment, gone the next. 

That just leaves a dirt-streaked Yelena standing across from you in the kitchen of your modest apartment wearing an expression caught somewhere between anger and shell-shock and downright concern as she watches you, waiting for a response. 

“Safe-words are meant to be important, right?” you ask after a beat, your words soft and tentative. And yet, you’ve never been more sure of something in your entire life. “They’re meant to have meaning.”

Yelena nods slowly. “... Yes,” she croaks out finally. 

You take that as your cue—walk right up to her, throw your arms around her neck, revel in the warm feeling of her body pressed against yours. “Well, okay, then.”

Yelena just stares, unblinking. After a long moment, she remarks, “I’m filthy.”

You hum in agreement, playing with the baby hairs at the base of her skull. They’re always so soft. “Yes, you are.” 

You get on your tippie-toes, lean in—telegraphing every movement such that she has time to pull away if she so desires—and plant a feather-light kiss on her lips. 

“We can shower, if you’d like,” you tell her when you’re back on the flats of your feet, looking up at her with a wide, doe-eyed stare. “But I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

The beginnings of a growl form low in her throat—which with anyone else, you might find off-putting, but with her is just _hot_. Her arms tighten around your waist, her quickening breaths are hot ghosting over your lips… her chest _heaves_ with the effort of holding herself back. 

“Safe word?” she rumbles out one more time, needing the reassurance that you’re okay with this, that this is _okay_.

Christ, you love her. (Even if she’s not ready to hear you say it yet.) 

You make sure there isn’t an ounce of uncertainty in your voice when you whisper, “Havana.”

— —

Okay, confession time.

Were you winding Yelena up? Sure. Did a part of you find it kind of thrilling that she was actively losing the battle against her own carnal desire before your very eyes? Absolutely. 

Did you expect her to pin you up against the refrigerator (which only had one flat magnet on it, thank _God_ ), shove a hand down your scrubs and panties, and start pleasuring you within an inch of your life?

No. No, definitely not. 

Still, you can’t say you’re at all dissatisfied with how it’s shaping up for you. 

One hand grips both wrists in an iron grip over your head and her body is flush against your own. You’re rendered completely immobile as she drags a single finger between slippery folds beneath your scrubs, only stopping to massage your clit in maddening circles—and never for longer than a couple seconds at a time.

“Боже мой, you’re soaked,” she gasps, and—

_Oh_ ! You know that one! It means ‘My Go—’ 

“O— _Oh_ !” The sensation of Yelena’s thumb rubbing into your clit rips a strangled gasp from your throat, making you lose your train of thought. 

God, the pressure is everything; the callused pad of her thumb is just the _perfect_ amount of rough and deliberate as it circles your sensitive nub, fogging your thoughts with ecstasy. You could come just like this, provided she keeps it up for a few more minutes. 

“That feel good, милая?” she questions, breathless. She smells like gunpowder, and sweat, and something entirely unique to her—something that’s all _Yelena_. “Tell me how it feels.”

You nod feverishly, shuddering as another deft swipe of her thumb has your heart crawling into your throat. “S-So good, ‘Lena, I—right there, right there, please don’t stop—”

And just like that, her thumb—that glorious pressure on your twitching clit—is gone. 

You barely have the time (let alone the wherewithal) to process what’s happened and voice the beginnings of a complaint, before—

“ _Shit_ !” Your voice is at least an octave higher than usual as two fingers plunge inside you without prelude, filling you to the brim in one swift movement. The feeling alone, nevermind the slick sound your cunt makes as it stretches to accommodate the sudden intrusion, is nothing short of _obscene_.

You writhe, trying to buck your hips up for more—only to be stopped by the hard press of Yelena’s torso against your own, holding you steady with ease. 

“Fuck, ‘Lena, I—” You cut yourself off as she withdraws an inch, then two. The slow drag of her fingers coming out of you is torturous and heavenly all in one, and fuck, but you can hardly think. “God, please, inside—back inside, please, I—”

Another thrust tears the very breath from your lungs, and the way Yelena crooks her fingers _just so_ inside you when she bottoms out has you seeing stars. Her palm grinds roughly into your clit, her fingers are curling in that _‘Come hither’_ movement against that spongy part of your front walls that never fails to make you gush into her hand… 

And still, it’s not enough. Still, you need more. 

She must sense it, too, if the growing smirk on her soot-stained features is anything to go by. “What is it?” she asks, feigning innocence. 

You try for a glare, but another strategic nudge along that special spot inside you crumbles your resolve in an instant—and all of a sudden, you’re begging, _pleading_ with her to please give you more. 

“N-Need more, ‘Lena, please, I—” Another drag of her fingertips makes you wail. 

“More what, зайка?”

You bite your lip, stifling a whimper, look her dead in the eyes when you say, “‘Nother finger, p- _please_.”

She chuckles, low and genuine. The sound of it makes your cheeks heat. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” she murmurs, amusement coloring her words. “Already have two of my fingers stuffed inside your dripping snatch, and still, you beg for more.”

If your cheeks felt hot before, they’re on fire now. Still, you’re well past any concern for saving face. At this point, you’ll say _anything_ to convince her to give you just that little bit more, stretch you out the way only she knows how, fuck you _hard_ until your cunt is red and raw and you have to beg her to make it stop. 

“‘Lena, _please_ ,” you try, willing yourself to remain coherent even as molten desire claws at the edges of your restraint. “You’re the only one who can fuck me like this, the only one who knows how—” 

You cut yourself off with a sharp inhale as she curls her fingers once more against your spot, grinds her roughened palm into your clit, starts kissing and biting along the column of your throat even as you struggle to form words. 

“Fuck! I-I—need another finger, ‘Lena, _please_ ,” you whimper, full-bodied shudders racking your body as her fingers tense and curl inside you. “Need you to stretch me out, make me _yours_ —” 

_That’s it_ , a voice in your head provides—like a lightbulb going off—even as another shallow thrust leaves you gasping for air. _Appeal to her possessive side_.

“—fuck me so good, so _hard_ , I can’t even _breathe_ without feeling you inside me—”

That does it. Without warning, she works another finger inside you, thrusting deep—so _fucking_ deep, you swear you can feel it in your stomach. 

“ _Shit_ !” 

“Legs around my waist, beautiful,” Yelena orders, low and rough. 

You barely hear her, but all the same, your body seems to get the message. A split second later, your legs are wrapped around her waist, all your weight pressing down on her hips, and the angle of her fingers inside you—

Good fucking God.

The angle is fucking perfect, she’s so deep inside you; fucking her fingers in and out of you at a punishing pace that makes your head spin. The lewd squelch of your cunt, the keening wails torn from your throat are nothing short of pornographic—and heaven help you, but you don’t fucking care. 

She’s hitting your spot with every brutal stroke, stretching you out so good, so good, so _fucking_ good; letting out breathless grunts into your parted lips, holding your wrists so tight against the fridge, you’re sure to have bruises by morning. 

It’s so rough, so hurried, so _primal_ —and yet the pad of her thumb massaging gentle circles into your clit is anything but. 

That’s what does it for you—her everlasting reserve in the heat of the moment. The _gentleness_ that peeks through a haze of primordial lust, ensuring you ten times over what you already know to be true: that Yelena will never, _ever_ hurt you.

Not like your exes, not like those old men, not like Vicente. 

Yelena is not like them. She never has been. 

She makes you feel secure. Safe. _Free_.

It’s that final thought which accompanies the earth-shattering climax that hits like a physical blow to your being; making you spasm and writhe and scream around Yelena’s fingers as pure, unadulterated pleasure takes you by force. 

It’s like… It’s like being shoved off a ledge, being pitched head-first into freefall… except this time, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ll never hit the ground. This time, you’ve got someone waiting to catch you. 

And she’d never, _ever_ let you fall. 

— —

Hours later, after many rounds and a seemingly endless number of orgasms, you finally get to talking about what had Yelena coming home so worked-up and upset. You’re on your sides in bed, face-to-face—naked, sweaty, sated—when you broach the topic. 

She immediately shrugs it off, refusing to meet your eyes—but even the fact that she’s letting you witness her indecision splayed so clearly across her features is enough to let you know that she _needs_ to talk about it… even if she doesn’t want to. 

You reach forth in a deliberate, carefully telegraphed motion; guide her oh-so-gently by the chin to make her look at you once more. 

There’s still dried blood above her brow, and a bit of soot smudged across her cheek. She’s never looked more beautiful. 

“Natalia said… that she didn’t know how someone like me could get someone like you,” Yelena admits softly, hesitantly. 

All at once, she looks so painfully _young_ in the gentle, yellow-y light of your shared bedroom. You ache for nothing more than to wrap her up in your arms and whisper comforting things to her until she smiles again. 

But alas, that’s not how this works. You know what she needs right now—to _talk_ , not to cuddle. (Maybe the cuddling can come later.) “What?”

“She wasn’t trying to be unkind,” Yelena explains, brow furrowed in contemplation. “We completed our objective early. We were on our way back in a Quinjet, thinking back to how things used to be. Talking about how… me and her, we’ve killed and hurt so many people. And… I called you ‘the best part of me,’ because I really believe that that’s true.”

Tears well in your eyes at the sentiment alone (because getting Yelena to admit she even cares about you is like pulling teeth on some days), but you will yourself to hold them back. She’s not finished yet. “And then?” you prompt gently. 

“She just said that she doesn’t know how I got someone like you to stick with me, but that I should never take it for granted…” Yelena trails off, eyes glossy with tears. “Never let you go.”

You nod, reaching out to stroke her cheek, rejoicing internally when she allows it. “I agree with the second bit,” you tell her mildly. Simultaneously, you make a mental note to have a _chat_ with Natasha as soon as possible. “She couldn’t be more wrong about the rest of it, though.” 

Yelena clenches her jaw, watery blue eyes intently searching your features for a hint of insincerity. 

She won’t find it, but you’re more than content to let her look. 

“I’ve killed people, Y/N,” she whispers. 

You tuck a stray lock of golden hair behind her ear. “I know,” you say softly. 

“I don’t know how to love you like you deserve.”

A sad smile tugs at your lips. “Don’t be daft, darling,” you assure her gently, looking her in the eye to let her know you mean every word. “You already do.”

She swallows thickly as a single tear escapes to wet the bed-sheets beneath her. “So… you know?” she asks, her words thick with tears and uncertainty and emotion so raw, it damn near tears your heart in two. “You know that I…?”

She can’t say the rest; you know she can’t. 

Not yet… and maybe not for a long time to come. 

But that’s okay. You _know_ what she’s trying to say. You know the feeling she’s trying so hard to put into words, because you feel it, too. Every single day. 

So, you smile, nodding and letting the tears in your eyes fall. “I do,” you whisper. “And I love you, too.”

— —

**Author's Note:**

> this was just supposed to be regular family-friendly smut and then it turned into this. i have no idea how to feel about it
> 
> oh also here's the tumblr i made for just writing stuff (mainly reader-insert works for now and questions/asks about ongoing stories) so you can find it @novoaa1writes ([link](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/))if you're so inclined :)


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